The Ruins of Ishbal
by Azrael - the Dark Archangel
Summary: A look at what might have happened had Roy revisited what used to be Ishbal. Oneshot.


A.N. This is an older piece I wrote inspired by the Ishbal rebellion, and my Roy and Kimblee obsession.

Warnings: Kimblee being sadistic and Roy angsting and setting things on fire.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, Hiromu Arakawa does. Comprende?

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Roy stood in the middle of the ruins, thankful for the chance to avoid 1st Lieutenant Hawkeye, and his paperwork. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan and again pondered the eternal question of whether Hawkeye photocopied his paperwork so he couldn't actually finish it. He snorted. Somehow he couldn't see Hawkeye photocopying paperwork; she'd just threaten the people who gave it to him until they gave him more. 

He sighed and looked out over the desert. It had been a long time since Ishbal, but he could still see the aftermath, even if time had washed away the evidence. The blood, and fire, and bodies that had filled the streets when he had been here last were gone, leaving only a deserted ruin in the moonlight.

Roy dragged his mind out of his melancholy, and started walking towards the campfire his subordinates had insisted on lighting for warmth. The wind shifted and involuntarily, he flinched. Borne on the wind, the smoke wafted around him, its smell sharp and acrid, plunging him back into his living hell.

_Death. It was all Roy saw, all he knew and all he understood. The streets of Ishbal were wreathed in flames, and the refugee camp for crippled soldiers was among the few buildings unscorched. A soldier ran up to him. _

"_Major," he panted, "Colonel Grand says proceed at will."_

_Roy nodded, and replied,_

"_Inform the colonel the order is heard and understood."_

Roy collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily. It had been a long time since he had hallucinated in such a way, but considering that he was now standing in the ruins of Ishbal, it wasn't so surprising. The gleam of the campfire shone in the darkness, returning him to another darkness, and another fire.

_The soldier gave a quick salute and ran off. Now he was alone, lost in an abyss where all there was, was the fire, and him. He took a deep breath and called the fire, feeling it swirl through him, filling him with warmth, confidence, and raw power. It burnt away doubt, and sorrow, pity and joy, until all that was left was raw determination, and power. Roy gave a frightening smile devoid of all emotion. He was no longer Roy Mustang; for now, for this night only; he was the Flame Alchemist._

He staggered backwards and slowly, leaning on the wall, begun to stagger towards the campfire. A spark from the campfire and suddenly…

_He was standing in the middle of a busy street, with the citizens running to escape him. He raised his hand and __**SNAP!**__ The entire suburb was ablaze, buildings burning, trees turned into towering flowers of fire, innocent civilians engulfed in flames._

Roy shuddered in anguish and stumbled, almost falling. His medallion fell to the ground and he saw…

_A tall State Alchemist with his long braid of black hair flapping in the breeze stood in the middle of the street, laughing. The frightened civilians turned to stare at him and he burst into sarcastic applause, bursts of alchemic lightning crackling around his hands as they exploded, one by one._

As Roy picked up his medallion and continued stumbling along, he froze when a glint of metal brought the most painful vision of all.

_He stood over a young boy, hand shaking. The boy did not deserve death, but had chosen to fight for the enemy and could be a threat. The battle raging in his mind and heart between pity and duty hurt, he felt tired, dizzy, sick. The young Ishbalan orphan raised a shotgun and Roy's fingers snapped, involuntarily, a burst of fire consuming the boy._

The tide of emotion welling up inside him to great to conceal, Roy dropped to the ground, and wept. He wept for Ishbal, for the children, women and men he had killed, he wept for Kimblee's victims, for the person he had been. He wept for Armstrong, for Grand, for Marcoh. He wept until he could weep no more, and then, he found peace.

He forgave himself for what he had done and finally he knew he could sleep without images of those who he had killed haunting his sleep. He smiled. It was time to put the past behind him. After all, he had a Presidency to get his hands on. Humming softly, Roy strode back towards the campfire, forgiven at last.

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Well, what do you think? Please, if you read it, take the time to review. It would make me very happy. 


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